


The Strength to Dream is All That Remains

by elrhiarhodan



Series: The Wonder(ful) Years Verse [23]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, F/M, Friendship, HIV/AIDS, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sick Fic, Slash, alternative universe, wonder(ful) years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the events first told in <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/349709.html">Heaven for the Hunger, Poison for the Pain</a>, where Neal might have been exposed to HIV/AIDS, Neal’s colleagues rally to him, they have his back and make it known that he’s very much part of the team.  </p><p>This story also ties up some loose ends in <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/350416.html">It's Life That Just Sharpens the Blade</a> and <a href="http://elrhiarhodan.livejournal.com/286199.html">What Doesn't Bend, Breaks</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strength to Dream is All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngelCaffrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelCaffrey/gifts).



> Author's Notes: Written for the lovely Angelita26, who asked me to write more of the story from **Heaven for the Hunger** , on my Timestamps Meme. Now, technically, a timestamp is a short outtake of a much longer story, but not in this case. The original fic was 2000 words, this one is six times longer.
> 
> Title from Dougie MacLean’s “Hearts Can Never Hide”.

For most of her life, Amy Grainger hadn’t been a woman given to deep introspection. Maybe if she’d been more mindful, more self-aware, she wouldn’t have had half the problems that she did. She wasn’t completely oblivious, though. She knew who she was - hard as nails, tough as boot leather, and at almost forty, she still could pose naked for Playboy. From the moment she applied to the FBI Academy, she understood that being a woman in a man’s profession meant giving up on certain things, like softness, fragility, compassion, empathy. 

But of late, she’d been taking stock of herself and not liking what she’d found.

She never expected to end up as a cold-hearted bitch with a serious drinking habit. The alcohol problem was something she figured out a few years back, after she disgraced herself with Caffrey in that bar, with Franklin, Channing, Powell, and Burke watching. For six months she endured a never-ending practical joke. Bottles of Vagisil kept showing up in her desk, her handbag, once even delivered in a box of chocolates. She knew that Caffrey had nothing to do with it, and was damn certain that Burke didn’t, either. It was those morons, Channing and Powell, and probably Franklin, too. 

But Neal Caffrey remained the target of her ire for a long time. Even after one especially horrible morning, about three months after the incident, when she woke up in a strange hotel room with her firearm in her hand, safety off, and no recollection of how she got there, or even where she was.

Of course the Bureau offered counseling for agents, but there was no way she’d ever let the bosses know she had “a problem.” Her career would very quickly, very quietly, die. She’d find herself reassigned to some Resident Agency office in Lower Bumfuck, Idaho. But even if she didn’t take the Bureau’s help, it didn’t mean she wasn’t going to fix the problem. There were meetings she could go to. The synagogue around the corner from her apartment hosted one every Tuesday night and Sunday afternoon. 

The hardest thing was walking in the door. But she did. And she continued to do so. Every Tuesday night and Sunday afternoon for the last four years. Half the time she just wanted to ditch the whole program and find a liquor store that sold liter-sized bottles of Stoli. She wouldn’t even have to go all that far. This was New York, after all. 

But it got easier, just a little. Those assholes, Channing and Powell, were gone from the office, and Jack never commented that she switched from ordering vodka martinis to tonic waters on their Friday night get-togethers. Of course, she never went out with Burke or Caffrey again.

She was still a bitch though, and most of the time, she was proud of it. And Caffrey was still sex on a stick, and even the lack of vodka in her life couldn’t erase the fact that she wanted him and he never looked twice at her. So for four years, he got the rough edge of her tongue, even as she knew he was the best agent in the division. She might have called him a lucky rabbit’s foot that first week, but it really wasn’t luck – he was smart and he never stopped learning and he was simply a damn good agent. 

If it wasn’t for the way he never looked at her, never talked to her, the way he made her feel – like she didn’t even exist for him – she might have relented and made her peace. Instead, she made him miserable. She wielded enough power in the office to set the line, one even Jack wouldn’t cross. Making Neal Caffrey into the office pariah made her feel better, and that’s what counted, right?

Except that it wasn’t right, and she’d known that for a very long time. Hell, wasn’t she supposed to make amends? Her sponsor – if he knew – would tell her that this failing might keep her from making a full recovery. He’d be less judgmental and he’d ask her if making amends would actually make things worse. She could lie and say yes, but then that would defeat the whole exercise. If she told him the truth, that Caffrey deserved her deepest apologies, he’d never let the opportunity pass to remind her that making amends to those she’d harmed was Step Nine.

Months passed and she did nothing. Then years and she let matters grow worse. Then Caffrey disappeared and a whole bunch of rumors circulated. He was promoted, he was fired, he was undercover. The last seemed the least plausible, but it was actually the truth, and she, not know-it-all Jack, found out first. One afternoon, a few days after Burke had been shot, a whole bunch of agents that she’d never seen burst into the office and bee-lined for Hughes. Given the gloom and despair after nearly losing Peter, seeing their ASAC so animated was startling. 

Franklin had been out chasing some CI about some insider trading scheme, and even though there were a half-dozen other agents at their desks, Hughes had called her upstairs, complete with the double finger point.

“Grainger – my office.”

“Sir?”

“You’re my stand-in today – you’ll represent the division when Agent Itani goes to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and explains why we need more wiretap and some of those new-fangled electronic surveillance warrants for good measure.” Hughes had put on his jacket and commanded, “Itani – fill her in, I have to go.”

Her boss bolted, leaving her standing there feeling like so much window dressing. The other agent had smiled. “Sorry about this – we weren’t expecting the data we got to come through today. Caffrey came up aces.”

“Caffrey? Neal Caffrey?”

On the walk over to Centre Street, the other agent had explained that Caffrey had been on deep cover assignment for the last five months, infiltrating the bankers for the Japanese mob in the U.S., and thanks to Caffrey, the FBI had just gotten their hooks into the biggest financial network the Yakuza had in the US. 

Amy blinked. It made sense.

Of course, there really hadn’t been much for her to contribute when they met with the AUSA, or the judge a few hours later, but it felt good, even a little redemptive. And if Caffrey was going to be back in the office soon, maybe – just maybe – she’d be able to take that last step and apologize for being such a shit to him.

“I guess you heard.” Jack, being Jack, seemed to spend more time with his ass on the edge of her desk than in his own chair. 

“Yup – Caffrey’s a hero, apparently.”

“That must put a knot in your panties. Caffrey getting all the accolades.”

She had shrugged. “No, it doesn’t and to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t trade places with him for the world. Five months undercover, no contact with friends and family, no back up. And half the time not even being able to speak your own language? Caffrey might be a – “ Amy had stopped herself. Caffrey was nothing of the sort. “Caffrey’s good and the agent running the op said that she’d never seen an undercover agent perform so flawlessly.”

Franklin gave her an odd look. “Thought you hated him?”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s time I grew up.” The words had felt good coming out of her mouth.

Jack had a funny look on his face, but he left her comment alone. “Anyways – after work I’m going up to Beth Israel to see Peter. Hughes says he’s up for visitors. Want to come with me? We could catch some dinner afterwards.”

Amy was struck by something – it felt like a hammer or maybe a slug from a .44 Magnum. Jack was asking her out on a date. He’d been asking her out most Fridays for the last few years and she’d been too self-absorbed to see the offer as anything more than an offer of casual companionship. She wasn’t sure how she felt about him or her own blindness.

She gave him a sigh, a rueful smile, and what she had hoped was a reluctant rejection. “I’m kind of beat, and probably the both of us will be too much for Burke. I was planning to go over tomorrow afternoon. But maybe dinner some night next week?”

Franklin gave her a tight smile and called it a date, but the slightly derisive tone hadn’t disguised his disappointment. She’d make it up to him. How, though, she wasn’t quite sure.

Her plans to visit Peter Burke on Saturday had been scuttled by some truly horrendous weather, and she almost ditched the idea on Sunday. But her meeting was good - something touched her during one of the testimonials. She’d never be as spiritual as the organization tenets required, but she could see the light sometimes. 

Beth Israel was a short subway ride from the synagogue and before heading up to Peter’s room, she stopped and picked up a potted plant. The admins at the office had circulated a get-well card, which she signed and tucked in a few bucks for some ridiculous teddy bear. But she could still hear her mother and grandmother yenching at her not to go up empty-handed.

Burke’s room was on the ninth floor, and according to a few of the other agents who’d already visited him, it was almost as nice as a luxury hotel. Amy wasn’t sure that was possible in a hospital, but the hushed tones in the corridor, the lack of a medicinal feel, told her that Peter had earned some type of VIP privilege. She’d have to rag him on that.

She found his room, and not surprisingly, Peter wasn’t alone. It sounded like his folks were with him. And there was another voice, a very familiar voice, telling Peter to pick a card. 

It was Caffrey. _What the hell was he doing here?_ Amy had stepped back, hanging in the shadow of the doorway, observing.

Playing the role of entertainer, Neal seemed extraordinarily chummy with Peter Burke, the way he was sitting on the edge of the bed. And Burke’s parents definitely knew Caffrey - the woman Amy thought was Peter’s mother reached out and pulled his hand away. Neal caught the woman’s hand and lifted it to his lips. The look in his eyes was one of affection and maybe even love.

She kept standing there, hidden, while Caffrey performed his little parlor trick. Peter looked healthy enough, if pale. Understandable, after taking two bullets. “And what’s your next trick, Houdini?”

“How about …” Caffrey was leaning over Burke and Amy had the oddest feeling that he was about to kiss the man. 

Peter’s father (there was no mistaking the familial resemblance) must have spotted her and cleared his throat. The two men separated and looked over to the doorway where she was standing, potted plant in hand. Caffrey got off of the bed and looked a little - well - sheepish. Burke seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

“Amy!”

“Hey there.”

“Come in. I’d get up - but it’s kind of hard at the moment.”

“That’s okay - I can do without seeing your ass flapping in the wind.” She bit her lip - her abrasive tone wasn’t really called for. But everyone laughed. Everyone but Caffrey, who looked at her like a field mouse might look at a falcon. 

She hoped her smile wasn’t threatening. “Good to see you, Neal.” This might have been the first time that she used his first name in years. “It’s been a while.”

“Um, yeah.”

“And congratulations.”

That earned her a puzzled look. 

“Your op.”

“You know about it?”

“Hell, everyone knows now. You’re the talk of the building.”

“Ah.” 

She tried not to laugh. Caffrey was blushing and had his hands shoved in his pockets. He looked remarkably like a sixteen year old kid. And then, not. There were threads of silver in his hair and on his five o’clock shadow. There were lines on his face, too. No - Caffrey was no kid. 

The moment became a little awkward. Amy stood there, not quite knowing what to say. Peter’s mother, though, rescued her.

“Here, let me take that…” She pried the plant from Amy’s hands. “A spider plant. Not even my son will be able to kill this.” She put it on the windowsill, fussing with it. “Peter, you’re being very rude.” 

Amy wanted to smirk, but she restrained herself. 

“Umm, thanks, Amy. It was very nice of you to come and visit.”

“Peter! Your manners are terrible. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

She did smirk this time; she really couldn’t help herself, but Peter was laughing and Neal was trying to hide a smile. “Mom, Dad - this is Agent Amy Grainger. She works with me in White Collar.”

“With you and Neal.” Peter’s dad added. She wasn’t sure why that clarification was needed.

“Yeah, with Neal and me,” Peter confirmed.

She wasn’t sure what was going on here. The Burkes clearly knew Neal, and yet Peter had never said word one about knowing him. _No, wait - that wasn’t true_. The day that Neal showed up for his assignment, Peter had said that they had been at Harvard together, that they had shared a house for a year. Yet, in the four years since Neal had joined the unit, the two men rarely exchanged hellos, let alone seemed like friends.

But they clearly were friends. Very good friends, for that matter. 

“Your father and I are going to get a bite to eat. That’ll give you a chance to catch up with your colleague.” Mrs. Burke picked up her handbag, kissed Peter on the forehead, kissed Neal’s cheek, and all but dragged her husband out of the room. 

The awkwardness returned. Caffrey just stood there, looking at everything but her and Peter. Peter seemed intensely interested in the weave of his blanket. 

“Well, I guess you’re going to be out of commission for a while. Does it hurt?” Those were fairly innocuous questions.

“Yeah - it hurts like hell, and every time I want to move, I have to think twice, and then think again. Docs say I’ll need another two surgeries to finish the repair, but I’ll have full mobility eventually.”

“Good. That’s good to hear. The place won’t be the same without you.” Which was true. She always liked Burke - even since that awful humiliating night at the bar.

“Thanks.”

More awkwardness.

“Yeah - well. I should get going. Let you rest.”

“Umm, yeah. But I really appreciate you stopping by. And thanks for the plant. I’ll try not to kill it too quickly.”

She chuckled. “You can’t have a blacker thumb than I do. I’ve been known to kill silk flowers.”

Amy nodded at Caffrey and left. This was one of the weirder moments in her life, and as if she was Lot’s wife, she paused and looked back into the room. Caffrey had taken a step back towards the hospital bed and looked down at Peter. Neither man said a word, but their expressions spoke volumes.

She didn’t linger. She didn’t need to. It was suddenly, terribly clear. She knew that she should have been disgusted, she should have been angry. She should have been anything other than relieved. Anything other than happy because Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey weren’t just very good friends. They were lovers. 

The sick, self-loathing feeling that constantly dogged her whenever she thought about Neal Caffrey just fell away. He never looked at her the way she was accustomed to men looking at her because he just didn’t see her like that. It wasn't because she was unattractive or unworthy of his attention. It was so weird to be relieved that Caffrey was gay. Amy had never quite realized how much she expected every man she desired to desire her, and how much she depended on that desire to validate her own worth until someone she wanted wouldn’t even give her the time of day.

She would make amends with Neal. It was just a matter of finding the right place and the right time.

In the elevator, she caught a glimpse of herself in the security mirror, and she looked strange. Not because her face was distorted by the curve of the glass, but because she was smiling. It had been a long time since she’d grinned like this, like she was happy with the world and her place in it.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Jeremy Hanover was born and raised in a small town in western Pennsylvania. His father worked in the steel mills, his grandfather in the coal mines. Both men died before they were sixty. Neither man was mourned. Jeremy never dreamed of becoming an FBI agent, he dreamed of getting out of the dead end hellhole where he grew up, and the only way out (other than hopping on a Greyhound bus) was football.

It wasn’t an impossible dream. Fifty some-odd miles to the south was New Eagle, Pennsylvania, the birthplace of one of the biggest football legends of all time, Joe Montana. His coaches told him that he was just as good as Montana, that he had the stuff to make it all the way to the pros. Apparently, so did the scouts and recruiters, who never forgot that some of the greatest players in the game came out of some of the most obscure places.

Like his idol, Jeremy was offered a full ride at Notre Dame, but unlike Montana, his career ended before it really began. An overly enthusiastic sack by a Michigan player in his junior year resulted in a torn rotator cuff and a popped knee. He finished out his college career with a less-than-stellar record, and figured that he needed to find something else to do with his life.

That he found himself in the FBI was always kind of hard to explain. The guy who sacked him was a decent enough human being and never stopped feeling guilty about the injuries he’d caused. His father was also a congressman. So when he offered to write a letter of recommendation to the FBI, Jeremy shrugged and said fine. He never expected to get in. He never expected to make it through the grueling five month training course. But he did, and thought he was pretty damn good at it. In the seven years since he finished his probie term, Jeremy had worked his way up from an assignment in the Phoenix field office to a better on one in Chicago and finally, a promotion to the big leagues – in New York City. It helped, of course, that his Congressional connection was still willing to put in a good word for him.

It was, to a certain extent, a little disappointing to end up in the financial crimes division, not Organized Crime, but White Collar – as they called themselves. He’d been on the anti-crime unit in Phoenix, busting up drug rings. His time in Chicago was all about the gangs and taking down mobsters and drug dealers. He was a man who liked assignments where he could use his gun. Finding himself in the midst of a bunch of number-crunchers and art-loving pansies was really a letdown.

But it was New York, and there was always the possibility of a lateral transfer.

“You have an interesting record, Agent Hanover.” His new boss was an old fossil called Hughes. 

“Thank you, sir.” He could play the game, he could kiss ass with the best of them.

“That wasn’t a compliment.” Hughes looked at him from over the file he was reading - _his_ file.

“Sir?”

“Since you graduated from Quantico, you’ve discharged your firearm in the course of duty seven times. Three times resulting in suspect fatalities and twice you injured civilians.”

Damn, he hadn’t been expecting this – this interrogation. “Each shooting was justified. The review board didn’t hesitate to clear me.”

Hughes kept staring at him.

He started to sweat and looked away.

Finally the old man spoke. “Agent Hanover, this is New York, not some imaginary version of the wild west. Agents in my division have some of the highest marksmanship scores in the entire Bureau, but they don’t go into a situation hoping to clear leather. Just want to make sure you understand that.”

Hanover couldn’t hold his tongue. “But what about Peter Burke? Didn’t he work for this division? Maybe if he’d been a bit more proactive with his weapon, he wouldn’t have gotten shot.” Of course he heard about the shooting – it made news throughout the Bureau.

Hughes wasn’t happy. “Agent Burke still works in this office, he’s returning to active duty next week. And he was injured while serving a warrant on a sixty-two year old currency trader who had no record of gun ownership.”

Jeremy figured that belaboring the point wouldn’t earn him any brownie points. “I understand – financial crimes require a different approach. More finesse.”

Hughes inclined his head but didn’t smile. “Exactly.”

The old man burdened him with a half-dozen cases that needed updating and review reports, more grunt work for probies than veteran agents, but Jeremy kept his dissatisfaction to himself. He’d find a way out of this assignment as soon as he could, but in the meanwhile, he’d play ball and curry favor wherever possible.

Hughes dismissed him, and as he was about to leave, another agent rushed in. “Sir – you’d better come quickly. It’s Caffrey – there’s a problem.”

Pushed aside and unwilling to get involved, Hanover found his desk and dumped the files on it. Might as well get a cup of coffee and make himself at home. Of course, he couldn’t help but notice the little drama in the conference room – a bunch of agents were huddled around another – who must be “Caffrey.” 

He grimaced at the quality of the java. One would have thought that in New York, the coffee would be decent. No one had introduced him to any of the probies yet, so there was no one to get him a decent cup of coffee.

The excitement upstairs seemed to reach a climax when the old man escorted someone with a tiny bandage on his hand out of the office. The other agents filtered back to their desks and a good looking blonde with the endless legs and extremely superior tits sat down at the desk next to his. Jeremy put on his best smile and introduced himself.

She didn’t seem all that impressed, focused instead on the two men waiting for the elevator to arrive. When they finally disappeared she turned back to her work station, ignoring him completely. She didn’t even give him her name.

Another agent, though, did come over. “Jack Franklin, and you must be Jeremy Hanover, the fresh meat from Chicago.”

He wasn’t sure he liked being referred to as “fresh meat” but in keeping with his plan, he put on his most accommodating grin and nodded. “Yup – just off the gang task force in Chi-town.”

“And you’re now in White Collar? That seems a strange career move.” The blonde with the extremely superior tits was talking to him now, but she still hadn't deigned to look up from her desk.

“New York’s where the action’s at – so I took the first open slot the brass offered.”

Franklin pushed the pile of folders to one side and sat on the edge of his desk. “A few things you should know about how we work here, Hanover.”

“Oh, believe me, the old geezer upstairs already gave me The Speech.”

Finally, Super-Tits turned around, her face was like stone. “Really? What old geezer?”

Realizing that he’d stepped in it, Jeremy backtracked. “I meant no disrespect. I was referring to Agent Hughes, of course.”

“And he told you how things worked in the division?”

“Yeah – how no one draws a gun here. You’re all about _finesse_.” He made air quotes around that last word.

Blondie sneered, but Franklin answered. “Well, we are. Other than what happened with Agent Burke last year, we haven’t had a firearms incident since the late ‘80s. Having a guy with your record is kind of strange, but I suspect you’ll learn soon enough.”

“My record?” Jeremy didn’t think he cared for this guy’s tone.

“Yeah – seven shootings, three fatalities, two wounded civilians. Seems kind of excessive, when you consider that ninety-seven percent of all agents in the FBI never discharge their firearm throughout their entire career.”

“You’ve actually seen my jacket?” He supposed that he shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Yeah.” Franklin waved it off. “But that’s not what I was going to tell you.”

“Ah.” Jeremy leaned back in his chair. “I’m all ears. Clue me in.”

“Me and Amy – and until she says otherwise, it’s Agent Grainger to you – Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey – we’re the senior agents here. Top of the totem pole. Agent Hughes delegates to us, we delegate downward. You’re a somewhat experienced agent, but until we figure out how well you’re going to fit in, you’ll be riding a desk.”

He didn’t like it, but if these were the playground rules, he’d follow them – until he could make his own. “Okay … so you four are the best in the office.”

“No – actually, Burke and Caffrey are, we’ve just got seniority.” That was from the ice queen. 

“But Burke got himself shot – by a sixty-two year old man. At least that’s what Agent Hughes said.”

“That has no bearing on Burke’s competence. He’s got a ninety-four percent conviction rate.”

“And Caffrey?”

Franklin gave him a tight smile. “Neal Caffrey’s just off of a five-month deep-cover operation that dismantled the Japanese mob here in New York. He’s closed more high profile cases than agents with ten years’ more experience.”

That didn’t make Jeremy happy. He could work his way up the ladder if he could push aside the small obstacles. Franklin and Super-Tits, for all their talk, seemed like typical big fish in a tiny pond, ones he could get past with little effort, but this Caffrey seemed like another matter altogether. “So, what happened to Caffrey just now? What was the emergency?”

“Some asshole hid a used syringe in one of the shred bins we confiscated. Neal was stuck.”

“Huh – seems like you guys made a really big deal out of a little pin-prick. Would hate to see your reaction if someone got a paper cut. Would you call 911?”

“What century are you from?” Grainger shook her head and looked at him like he was a moron.

“What?”

“No one takes needle-sticks lightly – especially when they’re stuck by a syringe where no syringe should be.”

The light dawned. “Ah – AIDS. So he’s worried about getting the fags’ disease.” Both agents looked like they were about to hurt him. He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, sorry. Didn’t realize you guys – and gals – were so politically correct.”

Neither agent said anything to him. Eventually, Franklin walked away and Grainger turned back to her desk.

About five minutes later, Super-Tits actually spoke to him again. “You know something, Hanover?” Grainger’s tone was surprisingly sweet. “You’re really going to make your mark here.”

He wondered if she was being facetious.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

He wasn’t a man who made snap judgments. He was cool and deliberate and never moved without considering all of the options, getting all the facts. He didn’t have the astounding leaps of brilliance that Caffrey did, nor did he possess Peter Burke’s near-infallible gut instincts, but Jack Franklin was one of the best agents in the division because he believed in the power of information.

Rumors, whispers, innuendo – he kept his ear to the ground and listened. And he’d already heard plenty about Jeremy Hanover.

None of it was good. 

He was more than a little shocked that the agent ended up here, in the crown jewel of the FBI. The man’s record warranted a placement in some dusty backwater, a resident agency office where there was nothing more challenging that a church’s rigged bingo game to investigate. It took a little more digging, but apparently he had connections and he didn’t hesitate to use them.

Hanover reminded him of how one of the priests in his native Boston kept getting shuffled from post to post, one step ahead of the rumors and lawsuits. He didn’t know what was more disgusting. A priest abusing the most innocent members of his flock or an FBI agent who abused his badge and gun.

Maybe the priest, but it was a close-run call.

Hughes had given him the green light to deal with Hanover however he saw fit. At least until he was transferred out of New York and into some less prestigious assignment. That’s one of the things he really appreciated about his boss. Hughes knew when to delegate and he knew when to trust Jack’s judgment. 

So Hanover was going to ride a desk, and Jack was going to keep an eye on the man. No telling what poison he could spill if he wasn’t watched. He had made mistakes with Channing and Powell, but they’d been entrenched in the office before he arrived and there was little he could do to mitigate the damage they had caused. 

Or so he kept telling himself that. The incident with Grainger and Caffrey at the bar, and the prank afterwards wasn’t one of his shining moments.

Amy, to her credit, never said a word even as Channing and Powell kept at it. She kept her mouth shut and did her work and ignored the laughter at her expense. Jack felt bad about his role in it. He was drunk that night, and more than a little pissed at how Amy was hanging over Caffrey, so he’d egged the other agents on. But the following Monday, he should have put a stop to it. He could have; all it would have taken was a word to those assholes, but he let the prank roll on for six months.

He did get back at them, though. At the end of that year, Hughes tasked him with both agents’ performance reviews and he was meticulous with his opinions and careful how he parsed the information that the review form requested. Within six months, Powell took an early retirement package and Channing transferred to Atlanta. Something about being closer to his wife’s family, apparently.

And for four years, he let Amy make Neal Caffrey’s life hell. It wasn’t that he disliked Neal - far from it. The agent was so damn brilliant he blinded everyone. But Jack was jealous and angry. Amy wanted Caffrey and Caffrey wouldn’t give her the time of day. Jack had figured that if Caffrey would just give Amy what she wanted, she’d dump him like yesterday’s New York Times. But as long as Caffrey remained aloof, Amy wasn’t going to stop wanting him, and that meant she’d never see Jack, never realize that he was in love with her. 

So he helped make Caffrey’s life miserable because Caffrey made Amy miserable. Poor guy didn’t deserve it, but it was a fucked up situation all the way around.

Maybe if he had all the information, it might not have been. A guy’s private life was private but if there were mitigating circumstances… 

And there were. Neal Caffrey was gay. That he never figured that out said something about how discreet Neal was, since nothing got past Jack Franklin. Well, apparently not, because this did. There were no rumors, no innuendos, no whispers, no god damned _nothing_ about him. And what was even more appalling was that he was in a relationship with Peter Burke. The man who’d been sitting next to him for almost a decade. Burke was close-mouthed about his personal life, but Jack never figured him for being gay. 

The two of them …

It didn’t bother Jack. He was a live-and-let-live kind of guy. He had close friends who were gay. He never felt threatened or creeped out or anything like that. It just boggled his mind that he never picked up on Burke and Caffrey.

Well, maybe if he’d checked their personnel files and found out that they lived together; he might have gotten a clue. But he didn’t and he apparently didn’t have a functioning gaydar either. Walking into Peter’s hospital room and seeing Caffrey, who’d been undercover for five months, holding the other hand while he slept, was enough to finally clue him in.

He didn’t say anything, not then and not since. What was interesting was that Amy knew about them, too. She must have seen something when she visited Peter that weekend, not that she said anything to him, either. It was just so obvious from her lack of hostility towards Caffrey when he returned to his desk.

Actually, it was a hell of a lot more than that. Amy was nice to Neal, but without the tigress’ claws, the overt sexuality. The very first morning he was back, she brought him a god-damned muffin and told him he could use some fattening up.

 _Women_.

It was really kind of amusing, to be honest. Caffrey wasn’t sure just how he was supposed to behave, and between Amy’s volt-face and his efforts to reacclimate to the office environment (and probably his worry about Burke), he seemed like he was about to have a nervous breakdown. 

Of course, Jack took pity on the guy. He made sure, this time around, that Caffrey was integrated into the office environment, that he was treated as a ranking member of the A-Team and not some trick pony. And when Burke came back three months later, for desk duty, it was Jack’s job to make sure that everyone understood just what Burke and Caffrey meant to each other, and what they meant to the office and the Bureau.

He didn’t use the words, he just made it clear what his position, and more importantly, what Hughes’ position was. He didn’t tell anyone that they had to approve of whatever relationship Peter and Neal had, but they were a pair of heroes and he (and Hughes) wouldn’t tolerate anything less than one-hundred percent respect.

But today was shaping up to be a cluster fuck of epic proportions and he wasn’t sure how he could fix it. He could use a little help.

Jack got up and dropped a folder on Amy’s desk. “Look this over for me?” It was empty, except for the note inside. _Dinner, my place? Seven sharp?_

A few minutes later, Amy gave the folder back to him, commenting, “This looks fine.” 

Jack opened it. She had scrawled across his note, _Can’t wait._

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Reese Hughes never wanted a shot of whiskey more than he did right now. It wasn’t even the whiskey, but the oblivion it promised.

He took Neal to the West Side Clinic, figuring that a dedicated AIDS/HIV center would get the results faster than a regular doctor’s office. Hughes didn’t let Neal go in alone, but he hadn’t expected Neal to ask him to stay even through the confidential portion of the pre-test interview. Even though Neal had explained that he was getting tested because of a needle stick, not because of unsafe sex, the bored lab tech asked some exceedingly personal questions. Reese had tried to leave, but Neal clung to his hand and said, “Please.”

The technician ran through the list of questions, scribbling down the answers Neal gave.

“Are you sexually active?”

“Yes.”

“How many sex partners have you had in the last six months?”

“One.”

The tech looked at him and then at Neal and shook his head. Hughes wanted to laugh. Neal just gripped his hand a little harder.

“How many male sex partners have you had in the last year?”

“One, and it’s the same partner.”

The tech wasn’t paying attention, or was simply committed to following the script. “And was this the same person?”

Neal sighed. “Yes. And for the record, I’ve only had one male sex partner in my entire life.”

The tech gave him a highly skeptical look before going back to his questionnaire. “Okay, now I’m going to ask you some questions about your sexual practices. Are you sure you want your … companion to stay for this part?”

Neal looked at him. There was so much fear in his eyes that Reese didn’t have the heart to leave. “I’m staying. But isn’t there a form that Neal could just fill out instead of going through this verbal exercise in humiliation?”

The man shrugged. “If you prefer. Most guys like to talk about their sexual activities.” He handed Neal a clip board. “I’ll be back in a few. Try to be as detailed as you can. We need the information.”

Neal’s hand shook as he tried to complete the questionnaire, dropping the pencil four times. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, son. This is …” He was at a loss for words. _Horrible. Terrible. Unthinkable._

“Peter and I – we’ve… we’ve been together since high school. There’s never been anyone else for either of us,” Neal unexpectedly volunteered.

Hughes wasn’t sure what to say. “So, you’ve known each other a long time.” That seemed innocuous enough.

“Since elementary school and we’ve been best friends since seventh grade.” Neal wrapped his arms around himself and whispered, “He saved my life.”

There was a story there, one that Reese didn’t know if he wanted hear.

Neal started shivering. “It’s so cold in here.” 

It wasn’t; the air in the small room was warm and stale. Neal was coming down off the adrenaline rush, his body reacting like he’d been in shock.

Reese sighed. He could handle any crisis thrown at him, but the mop-up? Not his forte. He wasn’t good with invalids or small crying children, not even his own. He sighed again and wrapped an arm around the younger man’s shoulders. Neal stiffened for an instant, then relaxed, accepting the comfort offered.

Hughes wanted to tell him it would be okay, that the odds were against there being anything communicable on the needle. But that was a lie. He had no way of knowing and anything he could say would be false hope at best.

It seemed like they sat in that white room for an eternity. The posters on the wall warned about practicing unsafe sex, warned about the dangers of sharing needles. There was even one with a detailed list of instructions for the safe disposal of the blood drawing equipment. He had them memorized by time the technician returned.

He held Neal’s jacket and his cufflink and watched as the tech drew two vials of blood. One for the HIV test, the other for hepatitis. He listened as the man gave Neal instructions on when to call and how to ask for the results. Neal’s hands were still shaking as he took the little white card with his number. The tech left and Reese wanted to get Neal out of there, get him home and into a familiar, less threatening environment.

Except that Neal couldn’t seem to put himself back together. His hands were shaking worse now than when he was filling out the questionnaire, and while Hughes would have just shoved the cufflink into his pocket and put his jacket on, Caffrey seemed intent on restoring himself to absolute sartorial perfection.

“Hold on, let me help you.” He took Neal’s hand, ironically the one that was stuck. It was still sporting that innocuous bandage – a few square inches of pinkish-beige vinyl – and in some quixotic gesture, Reese rubbed his thumb over it, over Neal’s sweaty palm, before turning his wrist and fitting the cufflink into place.

He was struck by a memory, one of his father, as he had helped him put on his first set of cufflinks, then stood back and looked at him with pride. 

Hughes helped Neal back into his suit jacket and he led him through the clinic and back to his car. Maybe it was the clarity of the late-afternoon sunlight, the cool breeze blowing through the canyons of Midtown, but Neal seemed to regain some of himself and was about to start walking uptown, but Reese grabbed his arm.

“Let me take you home, son.”

“I can walk.”

“Yes, of course you can, but you shouldn’t.” He actually manhandled Neal, pushing him towards the government-issue black sedan. “Don’t be stubborn.”

“It’s almost rush hour – it’ll be faster if I walk.”

“Agent Caffrey, get in the car. That’s an order.”

Neal gave him a small, tight smile and obeyed.

“Where to?”

“82nd and Riverside.”

Contrary to Neal’s expectations and the hour, the trip uptown took less than fifteen minutes. Hughes knew where Neal lived, but Neal must have forgotten as he gave him directions and then told him to stop at a granite-clad fortress, guarded by a red-coated doorman. And even though he'd been here before, it was still startling to connect the FBI agent he knew with this palatial residence. He knew that Neal had money, it was just startling to see it so manifest. 

“Do you want me to come up with you?”

“No, but thank you. I really appreciate this. I don’t know how I would have managed if you weren’t there.”

Hughes shook his head. “Nothing to thank me for. Are you sure you want to be alone?”

“Peter’s coming back from Quantico tonight. I won’t be alone for long.” Neal unbuckled the seat belt and before he could open the car door, the doorman rushed over to do it for him. “Thank you, sir.”

“Caffrey – if you need to, stay home tomorrow. Burke can, too. There’s nothing that the team can’t cover.”

Neal ducked his head, his smile a faint shadow of his usual grin. “Thanks.”

The car door shut with a politely emphatic _thunk._ Before Reese pulled away from the curb, into the stream of traffic, he watched Caffrey disappear into his building and thought that of all the agents he’d trained over the decades, Neal Caffrey was the only one he thought of as a son.

He should be so lucky.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It was full dark by the time Peter coaxed Neal out of the spare bedroom. “You need to eat.”

“I can’t - I’ll throw up. Hell, I might throw up even if I don’t eat.”

“Okay, but you’re not staying in here all night.” He was talking to Neal like he was a small, stubborn child, his tone firm, brooking no disagreement. But still full of love. “Come on.” Peter held out a hand and after a moment, and then another, Neal took it and Peter pulled him to his feet. 

Neal allowed himself to be manhandled and Peter pushed him into their bedroom. He stripped Neal out of his suit, taking care of it the way Neal would do himself. He sat Neal down on the bed and knelt at his feet, taking off his shoes and socks, rubbing away the slight indentations that the expensive leather left on his feet.

From this angle, looking up at Neal - his skin illuminated by the single bedside lamp - he seemed ethereal, not quite connected to this world anymore. Peter’s heart skittered and raced and he tried not to think of what Neal had just asked of him. _”You promised me, Peter. You won’t let me suffer. Not like that. If you can’t do it, just make sure I’m strong enough to hold my gun.”_

Overcome, Peter rested his head in Neal’s lap and tried not to weep and failed. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Sorry.”

Neal’s fingers curled in his hair, but he didn’t say anything. Peter could feel the slight tremors that still ran through his partner’s frame. 

His own emotions were still in turmoil, but he needed to be strong. He needed to give Neal the strength to face an uncertain future, the strength to dream even when all he wanted was oblivion. He needed to renege on a promise he’d just made because there was no way he’d let Neal die. There was no way he’d let this man give up a single moment before he absolutely had to. Because without Neal, he was nothing.

The five months they spent apart proved it - he had damned himself on that. And he’d be damned if he had to live a single moment without this man in his world.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

_Today is the first day of the rest of your life._ Neal remembered the first time he read that. It had been on a poster or a painting in the waiting room in his pediatrician’s office and he’d been seven or eight years old.

_”What does that mean, Mommy?”_

_His mother smiled at him and stroked the curl that always drooped down on his forehead._

_“It means that every day, you wake up and it’s a new chance to put aside what happened yesterday and start again.”_

If only that were possible.

Peter didn’t insist that he eat, but he pulled and pushed and prodded him into the shower and washed him from head to toe, as if he could wash away the stain of what had happened, of what was going to happen.

Peter had washed him, rinsed him, dried him, and carried him back to bed. Neal had struggled, protesting that Peter would damage his newly healed shoulder.

“It’s fine. I just spent the last three days at Quantico completing the physical fitness tests from the Academy training program. If I could haul myself over a twenty-foot cargo net and climb a brick wall hand over hand, I can do this.” Peter had lifted him up and carried him like a damned bride back into the bedroom.

Under any other circumstance, Neal would have thrilled to the unaccustomed display of macho behavior. Right now, he just wanted to bury himself under the covers, shut out the world, and forget the day ever happened. 

Neal didn’t move, but he had watched as Peter puttered around their bedroom, unpacking his travel bag, hanging up Neal’s suit, putting everything back into its proper place. These were things that he’d ordinarily take care of; things that Peter was doing now because Peter knew that he’d be restless if they weren’t done.

Only when Peter climbed into bed next to him, when he draped a heavy arm over Neal’s waist and pulled him back, tight against his body – the way he had every night they’d shared a bed – did some of the terrible tension leave him.

Peter pressed his lips against the back of his neck, against the apple of his shoulder, before whispering in his ear, “Whatever the test results are, they will change nothing. I love you, Neal. Through thick and thin. In sickness and in health. “ 

He could hear the tears in Peter’s voice, the anguish, and something in Neal twisted – a beautiful, perfect memory. “For the ends of being and ideal grace.” 

“Yes, Neal. Yes.”

The rest of the poem unscrolled in his mind, the words that they didn’t speak to each other that night, the last lines, _I love thee with the breath, / Smiles, tears, of all my life! – / and, if God choose, / I shall but love thee better after death._ He moaned, and a sob rose from the pit of his soul, animal-like in its harshness. Neal couldn’t cry. He didn’t seem to have any tears left.

Peter reached out and rolled him over, tucking him into the shelter of his arms and they both cried, for the fear, the loss, for the damned unfairness of everything.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter wasn’t sure that going into the office today was the best thing for Neal. But he wasn’t sure that staying home and worrying was good for him either. He would have insisted that they at least go in late, but Neal had slept and so had he. They were both wrung out and exhausted and they woke up much as they’d fallen asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Waking shortly after dawn, Neal just said, “I have to do something, Peter. I’ll go crazy if I don’t.”

So, in the end, Peter gave in and they went into work as if today was any normal day. Actually, today should have been momentous for him, since the higher-ups had cleared him to return to active duty. For the first time since the shooting, Peter clipped his badge to his belt, put on his holster and gun, and was prepared to head out and face any eventuality.

But it didn’t feel momentous or important, in light of everything else. He looked at Neal as they swayed back and forth on the train and worried. Neal’s words from last night were ringing in his head, and no matter how hard he tried to believe otherwise, Peter knew they weren’t engendered by momentary panic. They’d seen too many friends lose the battle and die in horrific agony. He couldn’t blame Neal for not wanting that future, but to ask him … To expect him to … 

He couldn’t even let his brain complete the thought.

The subway came to a stop and they fought their way through the rush of fellow passengers trying to get out.

It was early and the office was mostly empty still. Peter went through his usual morning routine, taking off his holster and gun and locking them in his desk, turning on his computer, making coffee. Neal just stood there; the lost and hopeless look in his eyes was heartbreaking.

“Neal?” He rubbed his partner’s arm, trying to break him out of the loop of despair he was caught in.

That earned him a small, tremulous smile. “I’m okay. I’ll be okay.” 

Peter hoped that that was true. He fetched them both cups of the office’s undrinkable brew and settled down to work. The pile of folders on his desk had grown significantly in his three-day absence, and he wondered when his desk became a dumping ground. Jack had mentioned that a new agent was joining the division this week, and Peter figured he could pass some of the less noteworthy assignments onto the guy.

By a quarter to nine, the rest of the staff started wandering in. A couple of analysts, followed by Jack and Amy, who seemed to be standing awfully close to each other. They came over to his desk, smiling - but those smiles wavered a bit as they looked over to Neal.

“How are you doing? The brass sign off?”

“Yup, back on active duty.”

“It's about time you stopped taking up time and space and did some real work.” That was from Amy, but her smile took the sting out of her words.

Other agents stopped by to welcome him back, and Peter was a bit bemused. He'd been on desk and surveillance duty for three months, but everyone was treating him like he was just back from a long convalescence. 

Hughes came in, nodded at him and looked at Neal before heading to his office. He had just enough time to finish his now-cold coffee before his desk phone rang. It was Hughes, and would he please come upstairs with his paperwork.

There was actually quite a bit of it. He had signed certifications from each of the training divisions at Quantico plus medical and psych evaluations, plus his own doctors' and surgeons' reports. Technically, until Hughes signed off on everything, he wasn't back on active duty. Before yesterday, there was little risk that his boss would keep him chained to a desk, but since Hughes knew about him and Neal, Peter wondered if he'd be benched prophylactically.

He knocked and Hughes waved him in with a command. “Sit.”

Before he obeyed, Peter handed him the file with his paperwork. Hughes flipped through it, double checking some forms, going back and forth between pages that Peter couldn't see from this angle. It didn't matter, not really. Either he'd be riding a desk for a while longer, or he wouldn't. And to be honest, Peter wasn't sure if being office-bound for the next few days wasn't a bad idea - at least until Neal got his results.

“Are you up to active duty? And I don't mean physically.” Hughes read his mind.

“I don't know, sir.” 

“How's Neal doing?”

What could Peter say? “He's coping.”

“I'm sure he is, but stop with the bullshit. I was with him at the clinic.”

Peter sighed. “Honestly, he's wrecked. But he's functioning.” There was no way Peter would tell anyone here what Neal had asked him to do.

“And you?”

“Whatever comes, I'll deal with it. Neal and I…” It was a strange thing to be able to say that to his boss. “We're together in this, it changes nothing.” He echoed his words to Neal from last night.

“If you need time - if Neal needs time - just ask.”

Peter nodded, a little surprised at Hughes' generosity. But Hughes wasn't quite done.

“This is a terrible thing, and there's a lot of uncertainty in both of your lives. That can translate badly in the field. I'm not going to bench either of you, but I will pull you out if I see problems. Got that?”

Peter nodded again. “Yes sir, I do.”

Hughes scrawled his name across the form on the top of his folder. “Okay. You're on active duty, Agent Burke, and it's good to have you back.” He held out his hand. Peter took it and even with everything else, this did feel momentous.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Amy was surprised to see Neal at his desk, perfectly composed and acting like it was any other day. Then she looked a little closer - there were lines of strain at the corners of his mouth and eyes, his hand as it held a cup of coffee shook ever so slightly.

She wanted to go to him and give him a hug. But she had the feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate any sort of demonstrable reminder of what happened. If he was here, at work, then he wanted to be treated like he would be on any other day. Since she wasn’t a hugger even under the best of circumstances, Amy held off.

He did look up as she sat down next to him and she gave him a smile, just the barest twitch of her lips. He smiled back - nothing like the usual Caffrey “life’s wonderful and I’m wonderful” grin that he normally put on, but something a hell of a lot more honest and a hell of a lot more heartbreaking.

“Can’t stand the thought of the office swill this morning. I’m going out for coffee, want one?” Now, that offer was completely out of the ordinary. She never got coffee for anyone else, ever.

“You’re serious?” This got a slightly broader smile. 

“As a heart attack. I suppose you’d like one of your fancy espressos, though.”

“I don’t think the deli on the corner makes espresso, Amy.” 

“I was going to head over to the new Starbucks over on Reade Street. See what all the fuss is about.”

Neal tilted his head and looked at her. “Wouldn’t mind checking it out myself. Mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all.” The question surprised her, but in truth, she actually welcomed the opportunity. Although her behavior towards Neal had changed considerably since he had come back from his undercover assignment, she hadn’t really gotten the chance to make amends for her past behavior. This might not be the right moment, but it was at least a chance to talk to the man.

As they walked by Hanover’s desk, he grabbed her sleeve. “Going out for coffee? Get me a grande caramel latte.”

She gave him her best stare of doom and he let go of her sleeve. “The coffee pot is over there, get your own.”

Neal looked at her and she just shook her head and mouthed “New guy.”

They didn’t say anything on the trip down to the street, and Amy bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from asking how Neal was doing. Then she realized that perhaps she should ask. Pretending yesterday didn’t happen wasn’t a good idea.

“You okay?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“When will you know?”

Neal sighed. “Five days. I can call for the results next Wednesday.”

“That long?”

“Apparently.”

Amy dodged a dog walker and a half-dozen tiny poodles and stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change. Neal held out a hand, as if to help her down from the curb. She didn’t know whether to laugh or threaten to cut it off.

Neal, realizing that his chivalric gesture was both inappropriate and unnecessary, gave a huff of laughter and proceeded to walk across the street, leaving her to fight through the crowd. She jogged a little to catch up and lightly smacked him on the back. “Asshole.”

“What did you want me to do, wait until the light turned red again?”

They reached the coffee shop, and of course there was a line out the door. They stood there, the man in a suit in front of them was engrossed in his newspaper and all of a sudden, everything about the moment felt right.

“I'm sorry.”

Neal gave her a puzzled look. “For what? Yesterday wasn't your fault.”

“No - not yesterday. For everything else. For the way I treated you when you came on board, the way I behaved that night at the bar, for making your life miserable for the four years that followed.” She stopped. There it was - her apology. And she waited, barely breathing, expecting Neal to make some snide comment and laugh in her face. 

He didn't of course, because that really wasn't like Neal Caffrey. He just looked at her, trying to figure everything out. The seconds passed into minutes and she watched as comprehension hit. His expression softened and something like compassion darkened his eyes. She dreaded his next words more than his laugher and derision. She expected Neal to acknowledge of that she was doing her step and this apology was simply an exercise and not something of any sincerity.

Of course Caffrey, being Caffrey, didn't go there. He simply said, “Apology accepted.”

And that was that. 

The line moved slowly and just before they reached the front door, Neal stuck his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels and dropped his own bombshell. “So, you and Jack?”

Amy stood there, stunned. How the hell had he figured that out?

“Don't worry - I only saw it because I know what to look for.”

“Yeah, it's not like you haven't had any practice in hiding relationships.”

Neal ducked his head and chuckled. “Exactly. So - like I said, you and Jack? That going on for a while?”

“Not as long as you and Peter, apparently.”

Neal ignored the jab. “He's been chasing you long enough. What made you decide to let him catch you?”

Amy did her level best not to let her jaw hit the pavement. Had anyone else seen how Jack felt about her? “I …”

Neal cut her off. “You don't have to answer that - it's none of my business. But you two are good together. You're good for each other.”

Still stunned, Amy just replied, “Thanks.”

The line progressed and they finally made it to the counter. Neal gestured for her to place her order. She figured since they were in a fancy coffee shop, she'd get something a little more exciting than her usual black coffee. “Cappuccino, please.” 

Before she could pay, Neal waved her off. “My treat.” This time, she wasn't going to argue about Neal's chivalry and stepped aside, letting him place his order. “Espresso, double shot, and a tall Americano.”

Amy figured that one of those was for Peter.

The shop was not a model of efficiency and as they waited for their orders, Neal asked her about the new guy.

“Name's Hanover, out of Chicago.”

“That doesn't tell me much.”

“You can wait to experience him for yourself.” She was in the mood to tease.

“Amy, come on - you know something. Share.”

“He's got a rep - and not a good one.”

“So how did he end up here? White Collar isn't exactly a dumping ground for undesirables.”

“According to Jack, he's got connections in DC.”

“And of course, Jack would know that.”

“Jack knows everything.”

“Almost everything.” 

“Yeah, that's true. And you don't have to be smug about that, it's not a good look for you.”

Neal laughed. “So, you're not going to fill me in on the life and times of Agent Hanover?”

“Maybe later? You and Peter, me and Jack, over lunch?” Amy held her breath, wondering if this was too much of an olive branch. 

Neal didn't think so. “Sounds good, and Jack's buying, right?”

“Of course!”

Back in the office, Neal handed Peter the Americano and went back to his desk, looking a lot more relaxed than he had been just a little while ago.

It was a pity that it didn't last. 

The staff shifted to the conference room for the ten AM tag up, and it was like watching a train wreck happen in slow motion.

Neal and Peter came upstairs together, but as usual, they didn't sit together. Peter was at the far end of the table and Caffrey went to take his usual seat next to the head of the table, across from Amy. Except that this morning, Hanover plopped his ass into that chair. Neal looked a little bemused, but he shrugged and took the seat next to him. Neal held out his hand - the right one, still decorated with a small bandage - and introduced himself.

Hanover looked rather pointedly at it, held up his own hands in a defensive gesture and said in an overly jokey tone, “Heard what happened to you yesterday. No offense intended, but I hope you don't mind if I don't shake your hand.”

Neal flushed a deep red and his hand fell. Anyone else might have slugged the guy, but Neal clearly had better manners.

The room went silent. Jack dropped a stack of files onto the table and stalked towards Hanover, his fists clenched. Peter stood up so quickly that his chair fell over, and the expression on his face read murder. Some of the agents moved to stop Peter, holding him back. Others were holding on to Jack, telling them that it wasn’t worth it. Amy was having no part of that, she wanted to deck the bastard, but Hughes stopped her.

Everyone froze as their normally mild-mannered ASAC stopped her. Hughes picked Hanover up from his chair and practically threw him towards the door. He looked angry enough to toss Hanover down the stairs and out of the office.

Amy didn’t wait to see how Hughes disposed of that piece of trash. She gave Hanover a shove and went over to Neal. She held out her hand and as Neal took it, she reached out and pulled him close enough to whisper in his ear. “Whatever happens, you're ours and we take care of our own.” She kissed his cheek and stepped back. 

Jack took her place, giving Neal a bear hug. “We've got your back, Caffrey.”

The rest of the agents made similar offerings of respect until only Peter was left. In front of everyone, he put his hands on Neal’s shoulders then cupped the back of his head, pulling him close. He rested their foreheads together without saying anything. Amy figured, between these two, words weren't necessary.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The sky was a deep blue that was rarely seen in New York City this late in the springtime. Neal stood in front of the windows and watched the clouds drift by. He wished he could be like those clouds, so free of all constraints and worries.

He shook his head at his own flight of fancy. Freedom like that was an illusion, a chimera. No one was really that free. And then he thought about what even a semblance of that freedom would mean, everything he'd be without if he were as free as those clouds.

He wouldn't have Peter, and that would be intolerable, unbearable. He couldn't imagine his life without Peter beside him, behind him. Peter, his rock.

And he wouldn't have Joe and Cathy, who were as much his parents as anyone else on this earth. He and Peter had gone to see them last night, ostensibly for dinner, but more to share what had happened.

Aunt Cathy had held him, rocking him back and forth like he was still a little boy. “I knew something was wrong, I could feel it in my bones.”

Uncle Joe, who was as demonstrative as Peter's mother, had wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug too. “Whatever you need, Neal. Whenever you need it, just ask.”

It was hard not to break down again, almost as hard as it had been that first day in the office when the whole team stood up for him. 

For the first time since it had happened, Neal said “I'll be all right.” He hadn't known if he completely believed it, but at that moment, it didn't taste like a lie on his tongue. He held out his hand to Peter, and instead of letting Peter hold him, he was the one who held Peter, the one who offered comfort and solace. Over the past few days, he had seen the toll this was taking on his lover, his best friend, his partner in every sense of the word, but until that moment, he had been helpless to deal with Peter's own pain.

The rest of the world had fallen away as he murmured, “We'll get through this, we'll be okay. We'll be okay, we'll be okay.”

Now, he wondered.

“You ready?” Peter was there. 

“Yeah, I am.”

Hughes had lent them his office after Neal had turned down the offer to go home early and make this call from the privacy of their apartment. He could have stepped outside and used his cell phone, but this seemed like the right place. If the news was bad, he'd have Peter here, he'd have the rest of the team. He didn't have to be alone in this.

The telephone number for the West Side Clinic, as well as the identification number he had been given to get the results of his blood test was etched in his brain. Still, he took the card out and read the numbers as he dialed. Or tried to. His hands started to shake and he hit a four instead of a seven. He tried again and made another mistake. The third time he misdialed, Peter took his hand off the phone and wrapped his fingers around his, squeezing gently. “Let me.”

Neal took a breath and handed him the card.

Peter dialed and handed Neal the phone. Neal put it on speaker - they both needed to hear this. The phone rang once, twice, a third time before a woman answered. “West Side Clinic, confidential testing. How may I direct your call?”

Neal cleared his achingly dry throat. “Test results, please.”

“Do you have your number?”

“Yes.” He read out the six-digit number, and repeated it as requested.

“Hold please.” 

The cheery music did nothing to improve his frame of mind, but Neal didn't know if he was waiting for the results or if the results warranted further consultation. 

The woman at the other end came back. “Sorry, please continue to hold.”

Neal began to sweat. This couldn't be normal. Peter stood behind him, his hand on his shoulder grounding him, keeping him upright.

Finally, it sounded like his call was transferred. 

“Mr. Caffrey?”

This definitely wasn't normal, since the clinic staff wasn't supposed to know his name. 

“Yes, this is Neal Caffrey.”

“Hi, I'm Doctor Campbell, and I wanted to discuss your test results with you.”

Neal closed his eyes, this was bad. It was as bad as he feared, or worse. He swallowed against the pain. “Yes, Doctor.” 

“Your intake paperwork says that you were stuck by a syringe of unknown origin a few hours before your blood test.”

“Yes. It was in a bag of shredded paper I was sorting through.” Neal wasn't sure why he felt the need to explain the circumstances to this stranger. “We've sent the needle to the lab for testing, but the results haven't come back yet.”

“We?”

“I'm a … “ Neal thought better of his explanation. “I'm in law enforcement, the needle was sent to a forensics lab, we haven't gotten the results yet.”

“Ah, well okay.” The doctor cleared his throat. “The good news is that your blood work came back negative.”

Neal's heart began to beat again and he reached back, squeezing Peter's hand. “There's a 'but' there, doctor. Otherwise you wouldn't have wanted to talk to me.”

“Well, yes - and I'm sorry for breaking the confidentiality seal on your report, but you need to know that you'll need to be tested several times over the next six months.”

Neal felt the icy chill of uncertainty wash over him. “Six months? So you're telling me that I really won't know for certain that I'm not infected for another half a year?” His voice rose in panic.

“It's the protocol, Mr. Caffrey. It takes time for seroconversion to occur, which is when your body begins to produce the antibodies an HIV test is looking for. That can take anywhere from two weeks to six months after infection. And it's your choice, but we strongly recommend continued blood testing at six weeks, twelve weeks and six months, and another follow up at one year. You should see your personal physician, Mr. Caffrey, and you should also consider a prophylactic course of treatment. We’ve seen some extraordinarily promising results with the new antiretroviral therapy. It’s not a cure, of course, but it can slow down the progress of the disease.”

Neal wanted to say, _"What's the damn point"_. It felt like the nightmare was starting all over again.

The doctor continued, “He can contact my office about them. I must also tell you that even if you are in a monogamous relationship, you must practice safe sex. Latex condoms …”

Neal listened as the man droned on. He felt like he was back in the clinic room, waiting for the blood to be drawn, certain that he was infected. 

“Do you have any other questions, Mr. Caffrey?”

“No - no.”

“Then, well - you should definitely see your personal physician and have the follow up testing done through his office. Take care and good luck.” The doctor hung up and Neal stared at the phone, the buzzing dial tone didn't even register. Peter reached out and hit the disconnect button, before turning him around.

“Neal - the results were negative. Today, you are healthy. Focus on that.”

He nodded, but not believing it.

“Neal?” 

Peter needed him to be strong, so he would at least try. “I'm all right. I don't have HIV.” He tried to summon a level of confidence in that assertion. “Today, I am healthy.” He looked at Peter. “We just tell everyone that the results are negative. They don't need to know about the follow ups.”

“No, they don't.”

Neal walked over to the windows and looked out over the canyons of the city. The sky was still impossibly blue, the high clouds still drifted by, unmoored and uncaring. 

And his future was still uncertain.

_FIN_


End file.
